They’re sorting through every last bit of it and photographing it, like somehow my old chewing gum wrappers and Elena’s sketches for new build ideas are going to somehow reveal some criminal conspiracy. I’m ninety-nine percent sure there isn’t shit for them to find, but it’s that last bit of uncertainty that’s gnawing at me while I watch. Like that feeling you left the oven on, but a billion times stronger. Did I really ship out those heisted parts? Am I sure one didn’t get mixed in with the legit, certified stuff? Then there’s Drazic, who looks about ready to leap out of his skin. He’s got a contingent of armed guards around him now because he keeps getting agitated and swearing at Tyler. “I paid for everything in that shop with my blood, sweat, and tears,” he snarls, even as Elena and I try to hold him back. “You can’t fucking take it from me. Elena, find me a fucking lawyer.” “Lawyer? You think you can afford someone who didn’t come off the back of a phone book?”
